


así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera

by winterveined



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:31:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterveined/pseuds/winterveined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it’s the alcohol. Or maybe it’s the way that Sergio just stares at him, his lips moving as he sings to the lyrics, hips going back and forth as he mumbles “<i>Ai se eu te pego</i>”, not breaking eye contact for a moment. It’s probably the alcohol. It’s also the alcohol that makes Iker close his eyes shut before taking more sips than he should out of his glass, tilting his head upwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the poem _soneto xvii_ by pablo neruda. you can find it in spanish [here](http://www.poesi.as/pn59017.htm), and in english [here](http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/121705-sonnet-xvii-i-do-not-love-you-as-if-you).

You’d think that, after almost 15 years playing for Real Madrid, waiting on the tunnels for an El Clasico wouldn’t be as nerve wrecking. Iker Casillas begs to differ.

He’s leaning against the tunnel’s wall, pressing his hands against one another repeatedly, biting his lips softly in between deep breaths, trying to put on the gloves with shaky hands, slightly paying attention to whatever Cristiano is saying, scanning the room to find Sergio, doing too much at the same time, over and over and over again. Until he feels Marcelo’s soft touch on his hand, a smile on the brazilian’s lips as he puts the gloves on Iker’s hand.

“Still not used to it, uh?” Marcelo asks with kind eyes, and blinks.

“Well, what would be the fun on that?” Iker says, and smiles. “Thank you.”

Marcelo nods happily, says something that Iker can’t quite understand and walks towards James and Toni. Iker watches him as he goes, tilting his head as he looks at the new players, a mist of curiosity and fondness. He remembers how he felt during his first El Clasico. Weirdly enough, it was the calmest he had ever been for such a match. Maybe it was the adrenaline running through his veins, or the way that his heart drummed against his chest as the crowd in Santiago Bernabéu sang and screamed from the tops of their lungs. _Hala Madrid y nada más_ , as they scored one, two and three goals.

The memory brings a sweet taste to his mouth. It’s been so long, and so much has happened ever since. There’s a hint of nostalgia in the way he looks at the pitch ahead of him.

Iker feels a soft nudge on his cheek, and he doesn’t have to turn his face to know who it is. He knows that touch all too well, is already familiarized with the way that Sergio’s hand feels against his cheek. He knows before it happens that the other man will turn his face towards him, and kiss his cheekbone ever so lightly. It’s their tradition. It’s their thing. _Theirs_.

Sergio looks merrier than he should, wiggling his brows up and down as he takes his place in the line. It surprises no one, really. Nothing sets Ramos in quite a mood as a clash against Barcelona.

“Iker, I think Toni is about to shit himself” Sergio says, a half amused tone in his voice.

Iker sighs heavily before looking at the direction Sergio looked at. He has to press his lips together to keep himself from laughing.

To say that Toni is nervous is an understatement. He’s standing behind James, his whole complexion paler than usual, and he looks rather… Well, constipated. Iker shoots a repressive look at Sergio before whispering “Look at James tho”. The colombian is biting on his lower lip until it draws blood, looking as if he’s about to burst into tears, and yet with a fiery motivation burning on his eyes that brings no doubt about his place on the team.

The referee blows the whistle and it all goes away from their minds. All the nervousness, all of the fear. The referee blows the whistle and they’re once again Los Blancos, motivated and focused, and ready for anything that might come.

That is, until Neymar scores in less than four fucking minutes.

Iker tightens his jaw, clenching his fists and shaking his head. It’s not exactly the way he expected the match to go. Iker yells at Sergio, at Marcelo and Pepe. Yells at himself, too. He would have yelled more if his defense was somewhat effective. It isn’t.

When Cristiano scores, Iker keeps his celebration small. He lifts his fists up, but his lips do not curl into a smile.

When the half time whistle blows, his brows are furrowed, his lips pressed tightly against one another. His steps are heavy as he walks into the locker room, his expression closed. Whatever ounce of chitchat that could possibly exist on the room ceases as soon as the other players notices his presence.

“I’m not sure of what happened out there…” He starts, lips curled up in a tight line as he glimpses at the faces staring back at him. “Of how Neymar scored in 4 fucking minutes, and how the only way that we scored was through a penalty. That team out there? That is not Real Madrid. We must step up our game, and show them who we are, and what they are facing. This is Santiago Bernabéu, this is _our_ home. And it is time we show them who’s in charge.”

He doesn’t notice the shame that burnt bright in James’ eyes is replaced by motivation, or how Marcelo is the one who starts the round of applauses that echoes on his ears.

Here’s what he does notice: the crooked smile that lies on Sergio’s lips as he raises his brows, joining the applauding players as he stares down at Iker (and Iker ignores the chills that he feels on the back of his spine).

The second half is a dream come true.

Pepe scores, and the Bernabéu explodes.

Karim scores, and the crowd goes mad, singing _Como No Voy a Te Querer_ from the top of their lungs, an insurmountable passion and loyalty coming from every single word that leaves their mouths.

When the final whistle is blown, Iker lets go of a breath he had been holding since the tunnels. He allows a smile to appear on his lips, to take place on his features. He is holding his hands up and applauding their fans when Sergio wraps his arms around Iker’s waist and presses a soft kiss on his cheek.

“ _Hala Madrid y nada más_ ” Sergio says, giggling loudly when Marcelo jumps on them.

When Iker walks in the locker room, its very atmosphere is different. The silence has been replaced by loud chattering, and somewhere Marcelo is drumming the bench as Cristiano and Pepe sings a rather rhythmless and pitchy version of _Dale Madrid Dale_ , but Iker is not one to judge. On the right corner, James and Toni are looking in awe at everything, a smile on their lips.

The drumming and singing suddenly stop, and just like that all of the eyes turn into Marcelo’s directions. The brazilians smiles widely before getting up.

“Alright, alright, listen up losers. Since we’re Real Madrid and I already knew we were going to kill it tonight, I’ve reserved the VIP area of Pacha for us. We deserve some celebration after such a fucking match.” Marcelo says.

There’s a loud wave of cheers, and Iker sighs. It’s only when Sergio looks at him, that he realizes he has no fucking choice.

After they have all taken their showers, Iker gets up and coughs a couple of times. The room goes silent and every single one of them looks at him with expectant eyes.

“I realize I was harsh before the second match,” he starts, scanning the room with his eyes, making sure that he looks at every single one of them before continuing “but it was only because I knew that we were not playing in our full potential. I have every ounce of faith on this team, on us. I believe that we are the best, and the greatest, and the biggest. And, as both captain and Madridista, it is my duty to ask for nothing else. That being said, I could not be prouder of our work today, and you’ve only proved me right.”

Iker swears to every possible existent god that there has never been a team as loud as Real Madrid.

*

Of every image that he could have pictured of the team at Pacha, James Rodriguez moving his hips down on a vodka bottle was not one of them. He recognizes the song from one of the many brazilian perwels that Marcelo has shown them, and there is no doubt that it was the brazilian’s idea to let the speakers blast with _vai descendo na boquinha da garrafa_.

“Ikercio!” Marcelo shouts, opening his arms wide open as soon as he spots Iker. “And here I thought our great San Iker would not show up.”

“How could I not?” Iker simply replies, a smile on his lips.

They talk for a couple of minutes before another song comes in that has Marcelo raising his hands high above his head and moving his hips, singing along to whatever the lyrics were. Iker chuckles at the scene, making his way towards the bar. He scans the room quickly, and swallows past a lump in his throat when he does not see Sergio.

As it turns out, it takes one Caipirinha and half a Sangria to get Iker to clap along to James and Marcelo’s _Gasolina_ ’s dance off.

Iker feels a heavy hand on his shoulder, and turning around only proves him right. Sergio is smiling from ear to ear as he looks at him, his brows arched upwards as he sits down on the empty space next to him.

He’s not entirely sure of how much they drink until Sergio is at the dancefloor alongside James, Marcelo and Cris, his hips moving uncoordinatedly as he tries to keep up with the others.

It’s not like Iker had not seen Sergio dance before. He had, on multiple occasions, seen the other man move his hips, and in some, even danced with him, - when they won the Euro, when they won the World Cup, when they won La Decima - a mix of reggaeton with flamenco with whatever else was playing at the clubs. They danced, bodies colliding as they went down and down, and Iker’s face burned red as Sergio pulled him into a peck on the cheek. It’s not like he’s new to the ‘Sergio Ramos tries to dance and fails’ universe. But this time, _this time_ , there is something different.

Iker Casillas does not turn his body to look at Sergio. He absolutely, certainly, most definitely does not tilt his head ever so lightly as he watches the way that Sergio’s smile grows wider with every new line, every change of pace or rhythm. Nor does he observes that, thank you very much. Let it be clear that Iker Casillas is absolutely not staring.

Not at all.

Alright, maybe just a little. Just enough for his cheeks to burn bright red when he feels Sergio’s eyes on him, a crooked smile dancing on his lips. Either Iker is going mad or Sergio winks at him, before leaning in to whisper something at Marcelo’s ear.

The look on the brazilian’s face is enough for Iker to know that they’re up to no good.

He turns towards the bar once more, moving his finger as he asks for another drink. He’s about to take a sip of his Sangria when he hears a familiar beat, followed by loud chanting. It takes him two seconds to turn around, and one to realize that he should have known, he should have fucking _known_ , that it would be Sergio and Marcelo dancing.

He definitely recognizes the song now, having heard it so much in the locker room, as well as in Ibiza and Brazil. Iker glances at Sergio, swallowing hard when he realizes that the other man has his eyes locked on him, brows arched ever so lightly and the dirtiest smile Iker has ever seen on Sergio’s lips, as he follows the choreography step by step.

Let’s set something straight: Iker has seen his teammates dancing to the sound of that music before. He had seen Sergio try and copy the movements and ending up laughing and being mocked by Marcelo. He has seen it all, but yet never before has it seemed seemed this… well, this obscene.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Or maybe it’s the way that Sergio just stares at him, his lips moving as he sings to the lyrics, hips going back and forth as he mumbles “ _Ai se eu te pego_ ”, not breaking eye contact for a moment. It’s probably the alcohol. It’s also the alcohol that makes him close his eyes shut before taking more sips than he should out of his glass, tilting his head upwards. He feels Sergio’s eyes on him, and he doesn’t dare to look back as he walks towards the bathroom, in fast and heavy steps.

Iker locks the door behind him, pressing his lips together and shutting his eyes with more force than needed. He wraps his hands around the sink, taking a deep breath as he stares at his reflection in the mirror; his cheeks are flushed and his pupils dilated, and he looks atrociously out of control.

There’s a tightness in his pants that he makes a point to ignore, because here’s the thing: he’s drunk. He’s drunk, and his body is acting up in instinct. That is the only answer, because it’s Sergio. There is no denying that Sergio is beautiful. More than that, Sergio is glorious. He is kind, and sweet, and has wide eyes that shine with love and passion and an endless fire. Sergio doesn’t care about growing old, he leaves that for everyone else. He cares about living and breathing.

It’s _Sergio_ and he’s his best friend.

Suddenly the air in the bathroom is far too packed, too tight. Iker feels as if he’s about to suffocate, his heart pounding on his ears as he unlocks the bathroom door and makes his way towards the roof of Pacha, the only place in that whole fucking place that he could actually breathe without feeling like he’s about to explode. His hands are sweaty as he pushes the door open.

And, honestly, God has the worst sense of humor of all time because of course, of fucking course, Sergio would be there, sitting blissfully with a bottle of wine on his hands. Iker would have left if Sergio had not turned his head on his direction, and smiled widely and with his all his face. Iker presses his lips together, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it.

“I was wondering where you went.” Sergio says, and puts himself up on his feet, leaving the bottle on the floor.

“Bathroom. I was at the bathroom.” Iker replies.

“Hm.”

It’s all that Sergio says as he takes a couple steps towards Iker, a toothless smile on his lips that grows with every step. He blinks a couple of times when he’s close enough to Iker, as if he’s studying, analyzing the man in front of him. Sergio’s cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, and his pupils dilated in a way that Iker only saw when they won La Decima.

Alright, let one thing be clear: it is hardly Iker’s fault that his eyes fall to Sergio’s mouth. The man has plum, pink lips in a way that he has never seen before. It is only natural that he looks at them. Sergio must have noticed Iker’s gaze because in no time he’s smirking, and, when he glances at the other’s face, Sergio’s brows are arched up.

Iker glances up, swallowing past a lump on his throat, and Sergio takes yet another step closer.

“Ai se eu te pego” he whispers, heavy accented and with his eyes locked on Iker’s, before pressing his lips softly, hesitantly, at Iker’s.

The feeling that runs through Iker’s body leaves him no doubt that he wants this. It’s the alcohol, and the dancing, and everything else.

With a fumbled groan Iker pulls Sergio in by his shirt, pressing their bodies together until there is no distance between them. He changes their position, pinning Sergio against the door, curling one hand on Sergio’s hair while the other is tightly around his waist, pulling him close.

It takes a second for Sergio to react, for him to put one of his hands on Iker’s neck, the other going under his shirt, pressing a hot palm and scratching the skin underneath.

“ _Carajo_ , Iker!” Sergio breathes out as Iker’s lips moves downwards, setting his teeth on the muscle at the crook of Sergio’s neck, sucking in the skin and leaving a cute little bruise there. He bites it when Sergio rocks his body against Iker’s, making sure that he knows just how hard he is.

Their lips are pressed together when there’s a soft knock on the door.

It doesn’t even take a second before Iker is as far away, panting as Sergio moves away from the door, lips swallowed and neck red.

“Sergio?” They hear Cris’ voice as the man pops his head in, opening a smile as he see the defender. “Oh, god bless, I was so sure I would find Toni and James making out in here. The two of them haven’t taken their---” He stops talking when he turns his look to where Sergio is looking, a confused frown on his face when he sees Iker, and his mouth goes from a sly smirk to an 'O' form.

“No, look, it’s not like that!” Iker is quick to say, a defensive tone on his voice.

Sergio presses his lips together, curling up his fists before letting a choked laughter out of his lips. There’s hurt in the way that his brows furrow, and the way that he swallows hard, sucking in a deep breath.

“Yeah, _nothing_ like it.” It’s all he says before he rushes out of the door, pushing Cristiano on his way out.

“Sergio, wait!” Iker says uselessly.

Cristiano lets a long whistle come out of his mouth, before leaving Iker alone.

*

Iker is fidgeting nervously at his gloves, biting on his lower lip as he stands in the tunnel, looking at the green pitch in front of him. Any match for Real is worth his nervousness, every moment between ten minutes before and after the game begins will make his heart beat faster and keep him uneasy.

He takes a deep breath when he feels a hand on his shoulder, expecting to face Sergio, to lean into the kiss that they share before every match, that is theirs. Except, when he turns around, it’s not Sergio that he sees.

His brows furrow and he sucks a deep breath in before he hugs Cristiano, somewhat numbed when he sees Sergio standing on the line behind Pepe, talking animatedly to him about little Sergio. He feels confused, betrayed and disappointed, blinking a couple of times as they slip out of the embrace.

Whatever it was that Iker was feeling must have showed up on his face, because Cristiano raises his brows and says “You do realize that you should feel absolutely glorious for hugging me, right? Not everyone has this chance, Iker”, and motions his hands towards his body, a mist of seriousness and joke on his voice.

All Iker manages to do is laugh shortly, before pushing Cristiano back to his place on the line. He doesn’t miss Sergio’s eyes on him, or the way that his chest clutches when he doesn’t return his smile.

They are on the pitch before he can do anything but breathe.

There’s not much going on on the match against Eibar. It’s not easy, but it is not hard, not brutal. It goes with a constant flow, and Iker watches.

Watches the way that Cristiano plays, how James and Isco seem to be getting along. Watches the way that Toni gives impeccable passes, and how saying that he has made two mistakes is already stretching out too much.

But what he watches the most, with no doubt, is Sergio.

He watches the ruthless way that he plays, the way that he goes for the ball with nothing but eagerness, how he tackles without reason, because everyone in that stadium knows that such a ball could have been taken without such force. He watches as he shrugs when he gets a yellow card, not even complaining to the referee as he usually would, not even coming near Iker to discuss tactics.

It brings a bitter taste to Iker’s mouth, one that he can not put away, not even when the final whistle is blown, guaranteeing their 4 goals and yet another clean sheet.

The walk towards the locker room is loud, thanks to Marcelo’s hand on Iker’s shoulder as he talks loudly about things that Iker does not listen, does not pay attention, too busy watching as Sergio gets in the tunnels, not glancing at him once.

“Excellent match, everyone.” Iker says, looking as his teammates as scattered around the room. There’s an expectant glow on their eyes, as if they expect more words from him, something other than a congratulation. “Let’s, um, keep up the good work. It’s with hard work and perseverance that we reach our goals. Staying humble. That… that, um, sort of things. Yeah…”

He thanks the gods above when Sergio intervenes, a loud “ _Hala Madrid_ ” that has everyone completing with a “ _y nada más_ ”.

When there is no one but him and Sergio on the room, Iker steps closer to him, uncertain and hesitant moves.

“Nene.” Iker tries once, a softness not often seen on his tone as he says. He tries again, not getting any answer from Sergio, who seems too busy folding his clothes perfectly before putting them on his bag. Iker sighs defeatedly, finally saying “Sergio.”

“What?” Sergio says, turning to face him with a blank expression on his face.

Iker finds himself at lost for words, simply looking helplessly at Sergio. He bites on his cheek, tilting his head slightly. Sergio raises his brows impatiently, and Iker sighs. “Are you okay? Are- Are we okay?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t we?” He says bluntly, before shoving the rest of his stuff on the bag and leaves Iker standing there, stupidly looking at the place where he previously stood.

*

He’s lying on his bed, Martín sleeping blissfully by his side, and watching television without really paying attention. Iker hears a soft beep coming out of his phone, and stretches his arm to get his phone on the nightstand.

 **From** : Keep Calm & Deixa de Recalque

> **Marcelo:** do u guys like the new title  
>  **Cris** : now we def have to celebrate your next goal with a kiss on the shoulder  
>  **Cris** : u win  
>  **Isco:** wheres sergio  
>  **Isco:** he hasnt sent a video of some new song in like two days  
>  **Isco:** what if hes like  
>  **Isco:** dead or somehtin

Iker blocks his phone and turns off the lamp by his side, turning his body towards Martín before closing his eyes.

*

They’re on airport, sitting quietly as they wait for their flight to Switzerland to arrive.

Iker is sitting down next to Sergio, and the proximity feels foreign. Sergio is not looking at him. Rather, he is staring at his phone, laughing loudly as he shows the screen to James. Iker drums his fingers on his legs, feeling a slight hint of (jealousy) curiosity as to what is so funny that has Sergio smiling as James leans over to whisper something on his ears.

He sits alone on the plane, moving uncomfortably on the chair.

On most days, he would have thanked everyone for leaving him alone, but today there is nothing that he wants but a company, someone to take his mind off of the night after El Clásico, and Sergio, and just everything.

He sleeps throughout most of the flight, and does not notice when Sergio puts a blanket over him before going back to his seat.

When they arrive at the hotel, Iker doesn’t even blink when Marcelo is assigned as his roommate, and pretends that he does not notice the confused looks that his teammates shoot at him and Sergio, back and forward, like they’re trying to figure out what has happened between the two of them.

Iker smiles softly at Marcelo, who looks more excited than he should. When Iker looks at him with his brows furrowed, he leans in and whispers “We were hoping to get Toni and James on a room together. Now they can, you know, figure their shit out.”

“And here I thought you were excited about sharing a room with me…” Iker says, an over dramatic sigh coming out of his lips as he looks at Marcelo.

“Of course I am, Ikercio. How long has it been since you and I shared rooms, honestly?” Marcelo doesn’t say a thing about Sergio, and Iker is grateful.

They go to their room quietly, Iker walking in fast steps and Marcelo right behind him, laughing at something that Cristiano said before entering in his own room.

“Everyone has noticed, you know.” Marcelo says, as he shuts the door behind him. “That you and Sergio aren’t speaking to one another.”

Iker looks at him for a second, considering shrugging the issue off and going to sleep. It’s probably the best choice. The less painful one. The one that won’t make him face what has happened. He considers simply saying ‘we’re good’ or ‘I’m tired, how about we discuss this some other time’, and never actually having that time to come. He considers doing all of that, but instead he just sighs. A tired sigh, filled with all of his emotions, raw and truthful, broken and exposed. He sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed, looking tiredly at Marcelo.

“Has he told anyone? About why he’s not talking to me?” Iker asks, resting his hands on his knees and eyes fixated on the wall in front of him.

“Isco has tried to take it out from him, but all he does is shrug and say that we’re mad.” Marcelo says, as he sits down on the other bed, right next to Iker’s. “I have the feeling that Cris knows what’s going on, but he refuses to say or help on anything.”

Of course Cristiano knows. He was there. He saw what happened, what destroyed their friendship.

“It affects the whole team, you know?” Marcelo whispers, looking at Iker’s eyes. “You two are like… You two are the living and breathing image of Real Madrid. Our captains, who have been through hell and back for and with Real and would do it again, without a second glance or thought. And you went through it all _together_. I don’t think you realize how much it really affect us. Your friendship, your partnership, your love. It’s part of what keep us united.”

Iker looks at Marcelo, and talks. He talks about the night at the club, and the music, and the way that Sergio looked at him. He talks about how Sergio tried to keep up with him and James, and how he sang Ai Se Eu Te Pego not once, but twice. He talks about the heavy accent that he carried when talking portuguese, and the alcohol taste on his mouth when they kissed. He talks about what happened when Cris appeared, and the tone in Sergio’s voice as he left.

And when he’s finally finishes talking, all Marcelo does is look at him, an almost unbearable silence stretching between them, and the brazilian doesn’t blink. Iker is close to getting up when he finally speaks up again.

“You know, it’s a funny thing. When I first got to Real, back in 2007, I was absolutely sure that you two were fucking. Everyone, actually.” There’s a slight pause as Marcelo thinks about how to continue, his lips pressed together as his eyes wander. “Eventually I just accepted that you two were just friends. Abysmally close and codependent friends, but still. Friends. But I could never truly shake out the feeling that there was more than friendship between the two of you. I know it. Sergio knows it. And I think you know it too.”

Iker presses his lips together and takes a deep breath, rubbing his forehead tiredly. Marcelo flashes him a bright smile before he kneels next to him, putting his hand on top of Iker’s and squeezing it, as he says “It will be fine. You’ll see. Everything will fall into place. Just as it should.”

Before Iker can say anything Marcelo is on the bathroom, hot water running as he takes one of his many showers per day.

*

The win against Basel is tough. They knew that they were up for a challenge, did not doubt the power and quality of the swiss team for a moment. The win against Basel was made of hard work and drive, and passion.

They’re back at the plane, and, again, there is no one by Iker’s side. Maybe is because everyone is expecting Sergio to sit next to him, or according to Marcelo “You snore, Iker. Ain’t nobody dealing with that”. His head is pressed against the cold window as the plane takes off, his lips pressed together and his mind wandering from year to year.

He starts when he and Sergio first met. He remembers it vividly, as if it was no more than a year back. He remembers when the new, shiny and smiley player came in, with a dreadful long hair and big hopeful eyes. He came from Sevilla, and said that it had always been his dream, since he was a little boy, to one day play for Real Madrid. He can’t quite believe that it is real, and he has pinched himself multiple times.

He remembers 2008 like a dream, scattered memories of goals, and screams and celebrations. He remembers the taste of victory, the sweet sound of _Viva España_ echoing on their ears they screamed it from the top of their lungs. He remembers cheering it behind Bastian Schweinsteiger, who looked something between hurt and annoyed at the spaniards happiness.

The 2010 World Cup is the memory that he holds high above. He remembers every game with perfection, every clean sheet that they achieved. He remembers with care and joy the match against the Netherlands, and the way that his heart filled up when the final whistle was blown, setting them as the World Cup Champions, for the first time. Everyone will know our names, he remembers Sergio whispering on his ear, a soft laugh coming from his lips as he wiped the happy tears that started to fill in on his eyes.

He remembers all of their victories with Real Madrid, as well as all of their losses. He remembers with colors and details the way that Sergio held onto him as they lost to Borussia Dortmund. One, two, three and four goals. He remembers how hurt Sergio looked, as well as ashamed, and how all he wanted was to say _this is not your fault_ , but those words would always come before _this is on me_.

He finds it hard not to think about La Décima. Of how Sergio made it possible, made it happen, by scoring a header at minute 93’. He remembers perfectly the will and the passion of the team on field. He remembers how much all he wanted to do was to thank Sergio, and hold him and kiss him over and over again, until he understood exactly how much it meant to him, exactly how grateful he was that the man existed.

Iker presses his lips together when he thinks of Brazil. He brings the blanket up, until it is covering all the way to his nose as he thinks of the match against the Netherlands. It had been a slap on their faces, the way in which it all fell apart, the way that their tictac suddenly didn’t work. Didn’t make any sort of effect. He closes his eyes and pretends that his chest doesn’t clutch when he remembers of the sadness and disappointment burning bright on Sergio’s eyes.

*

It’s raining when they arrive at Madrid, thick drops as the sky is brightened by lightnings and thunders break the silence that is set as they make their way into their cars.

Iker is on the car, tapping his fingers on the wheel as he waits for the red signal to turn green. He watches as the rain falls on the glass, pressing his lips together. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second. Marcelo’s words weighing on his shoulders and drumming on his mind over and over and over again. He opens his eyes when he hears a loud horn coming from the car behind him.

He doesn’t twice before he’s making a curve on the return, driving towards the only place where he’s truly meant to be.

He parks in front of Sergio’s house, rain pouring from the skies, and he hesitates. He takes a deep breath and leaves the car, hands shaking ever so slightly.

Iker considers, more times than not, turning away and leaving. Maybe it’s the guilt or the shame, or the fact that he does not know what he could possibly say to Sergio to make things right, to make it okay, to take them back to the point where they stopped, to that night at the rooftop of Pacha. He presses the doorbell and waits.

He waits for what feels like forever until Sergio opens the door, his hair wet and wearing his long sleeved Real Madrid pajama.

Sergio blinks, his face shifting from surprise to confusion to somewhat annoyance in the gap of five seconds.

“What are you doing here?” Sergio asks, lips pressed together until they make a thin line.

“I need to talk to you.” Iker replies, but he gets no answer. They look at each other for a couple of seconds, an uncomfortable silence growing between them. The gap between them has never felt bigger, almost as if they are in different countries. Sergio doesn’t shut the door, he doesn’t tell Iker to leave. He simply stands there, and stares blankly at him. “Nene, _por favor_ , let me in.”

Sergio opens up enough space to let Iker in, shutting the door behind him right after. He motions towards the direction of the living room, leading Iker in silence. He doesn’t say a word when they get there, nor do they sit on the couch. All that Sergio does is look at Iker, a pointed look that makes him swallow past a lump in his throat.

“Since when have you known?” Iker asks, fidgeting with his hands and biting the inside of his cheeks.

“Known what?” Sergio deadpans.

“That you’re in love with me. Since when have you known?” Iker realizes, right after the words come out of his mouth, just how full of himself he sounds.

It takes Sergio a while to answer. He makes a point to look at everything but Iker, to press his lips together and not say a word, to take deep breaths and not let Iker know what is going on on his mind, whatever on earth he is feeling. It makes Iker realize that he only thought about himself. That maybe it really was just the alcohol, and Marcelo was wrong. It’s only when Iker opens his mouth that Sergio begins to talk.

“After Brazil.” Sergio says, and bites the inside of his cheek. He plays silently with his fingers, taking a deep breath before continuing “I used to think that the pull I felt towards you was a result of winning. The adrenaline, you know. I thought it was because we were on top of the word, living the dream. That kind of stuff. But then the World Cup happened, and we lost. We made a pathetic debut, but nothing changed. I still looked at you and saw the sun, as ridiculous and teenagy as this sounds. That’s when I realized.”

Iker blinks a couple of times, processing the words that just came out of Sergio’s mouth. He swallows hard, tilting his head ever so slightly. “We had lost before, though. Multiple times, too. What changed?”

Sergio laughs, short and sharp, brows raised as he stares at Iker. “Well, fuck me if I knew, Iker!” His tone is exasperated, and he presses his lips tightly together before sighing. “Look, just… just don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. We’ll be back at our usual selves in no time.”

Iker is looks at him, lips slightly apart and blinks a couple of times, before saying “Nene…”

He’s not sure if it’s the way that Sergio looks at him, raw and pure, a hint of pain on the way that his eyes water and on the way that he tries to hide it, looking down at the floor and taking a deep breath. Iker is not entirely sure of what shot of courage that he’s injected with, but he’s standing in front of Sergio in a second, his hands on the sides of his face as he forces Sergio to look at him.

He crashes their lips together, whispering nene over and over and over again.

Sergio doesn’t stop him. He slips into the kiss, pulling Iker in, letting his hands fall into his waist. They fit their lips together over and over again, both hot and calm, both tender and hungry. It’s paradoxical and indescribable, something between them and them only. Iker takes steps forward, pinning Sergio against the without breaking the kiss. He helps Sergio as he takes Iker’s jacket off, throwing it somewhere to be picked up later.

They are plastered together, exchanging hot breaths into each other’s mouth, when Iker moves his lips down, first leaving soft kisses at Sergio’s jawbone, only to move to the crook of Sergio’s neck, finding his spot once again and sucking in the skin, only biting it when Sergio thrusts his hips against Iker’s.

Iker can feel a tightness on his pants, and lets a muffled groan escape his lips when Sergio palms it. In no time Iker is down to his knees, looking at Sergio with his lips red and swollen. Sergio inhales sharply when Iker starts to play with his pant’s bands, ghosting his fingertips on the skin underneath it.

Iker pulls down the pants slowly, gently pressing his fingers against Sergio’s thighs. Sergio thinks that Iker looks absolutely magnificent from that position, his eyes stuck on Sergio’s.

When Iker moves his eyes to Sergio’s cock he sucks in a breath, involuntarily licking his lips. Here’s the thing though: Iker is doing this based solely on two things. The first one is instinct. He’s doing what he thinks he should be doing, moving based on his imagination. The second one, is what he has received before. He’s going from things that he enjoys, things that make him hit his climax.

Sergio’s cock is hot and heavy and hard against his tongue, and Iker makes a point to breathe from his nose. He also makes a point to keep back his teeth, only tonguing at the head. The noises that Sergio makes are absolutely dirty, and, when he pulls Iker’s head up, forcing him to look at him, there is a lust on his eyes that Iker has never seen before.

Iker swallows him as far as he can go comfortably, but Sergio doesn’t seem to mind that. His hand is buried on Iker’s hair, pulling at it slightly.

“Is this--fuck--okay? Are you--?” Sergio says breathlessly, and, if Iker could he would roll his eyes in three hundred degrees. To prove his points, he takes more of Sergio in.

Sergio seems to understand the message because, suddenly, he’s moving back, allowing Iker to take a breath before going in back again.

Iker doesn’t gag. He forces himself not to, taking it all in, fighting whatever urge of his body. Sergio pulls back once again, and something shifts on his face. Suddenly, _suddenly_ , Iker sees the cocky Sergio that not many know. He smirks down softly at Iker and starts fucking into his mouth, thrusting his hips back and forward over and over and over again.

It’s so, so, _so fucking good_. Iker picks up Sergio’s flow soon enough, letting air in and out when possible, letting out the most obscene and delicious noises out of Sergio’s mouth, as he softly moans Iker’s name, says it like a prayer.

It feels so good, so damn good that Iker finally understands it. Understands why so many people like giving a blowjob. Is a kind of rush, something new that flows through your veins and it’s curious, and exciting, and it makes you feel powerful because with your mouth, nothing but your lips and tongue you can bring someone so close, make them lose their senses even if for just awhile.

“Iker, _Iker_ , I’m gonna---” Sergio sucks in a breath, and Iker pulls back enough that Sergio comes on the tip of his tongue, and he sucks and licks him as Sergio looks at him as if he’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

He pulls away unwillingly, Sergio’s cock softening. They don’t move for a while, Sergio taking in deep breaths as he looks at Iker, his legs shaky and his knee weak.

Sergio recomposes himself before pulling Iker up, pressing their lips together, tasting himself on Iker’s tongue before sliding his hand into Iker’s pants.

Iker gasps as Sergio starts to move, and he has never experienced anything such as this, nothing that can quite compare to the feeling of Sergio jerking him off, his fingers wrapped around his cock as he moves in quick and yet tender strokes, making Iker groan loudly as Sergio’s smirk grows wider and wider.

Sergio kisses his lips, fast and rough as he fastens the pace of his movements, and sooner than later Iker’s breathing is faster, and variations of “fuck”, “Sergio” and “I’m so close” are coming out of his lips.

He comes on Sergio’s hands, breathlessly looking at the man in front of him. They press their foreheads together, and simply enjoy the moment together, recomposing themselves.

There’s no need to say anything, no need to ruin their moment with words. Everything that has to be said they already know. They know it from the way that their lips move upwards, in a smile, and the way that they press their lips together, softly, calmly, before making their way to Sergio’s room.

Before Iker falls asleep, he texts a quick ‘ _Thank you_ ’ to Marcelo, hoping that the brazilian will understand.

*

They arrive together and late for training on Wednesday, a soft smile on their lips as they talk animatedly about tactics on the match against Málaga. It’s only when they arrive at the locker room that Sergio stops paying attention to Iker, his eyes fixated on something in front of him as his lips curved into a crooked smile.

Iker moves his head ever so slightly, only to find all of his teammates staring at them knowingly, Cris with a sly smile and Marcelo, looking absolutely pleased with himself as he finishes putting up a banner that says, on capital letters, ‘ **CONGRATULATIONS ON THE SEX** ’.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Any and every mistake is on me. Comments & critiques are always appreciated. You can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/schwnies) or [Tumblr](http://sergiohamos.tumblr.com).


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